June 10, 1940
by Maudlin Matryoshka
Summary: A moment between England and France four days before the invasion of Paris, 1940. No ships.


_Paris. June 10, 1940_

A gaunt figure paces in front of the stone wall at the outskirts of the city. His dress is nondescript, save only a rifle slung across his back, and a once-jaunty beret pulled too low across his brow to keep out suspicious eyes and the morning sun. A poorly made cigarette balanced from the corner of his mouth sends up little puffs of thick, sticky smoke. He pulls his coat closer, and a curl of blonde hair peeks over his collar, shining softly in the meager light.

France pulls up his sleeve to check the time and swears softly. In his other pocket, his hand anxiously works over a wooden rosary. He knows this is a risk, a longshot, impossible, dangerous, and irresponsible. There is no reason England should take this risk to meet him at the edge of Paris.

He is late.

France swears again and spits out the cigarette, crushing it beneath his chunky military boots, standard issue. Underneath the heavy coat, he wears the bright blue uniform of a French soldier.

"France!" A voice hisses from the other side of the wall.

"Angleterre," France breathes, startled. "Arthur-I'm here."

"Over here..." England's voice comes from a few steps further down the wall, and France follows and kneels, groaning as his sore body protests the movement. From a small hole in the wall, he can see one brilliant green eye studying him carefully.

"You look like hell," England remarks.

France chuckles dryly. "I _have_ been better."

"Hmmm..."

"I am not about to take advice for my appearance from _you_, Angleterre."

"Neither would I give it to you, France."

"But perhaps you would spare me a drop of-anything? I might even be inclined to try your scotch, now."

"France, out of wine?" England mocks bitterly. "I brought nothing. Surely you didn't call me

all this way for a drink."

"Non...for information. And, perhaps, for...assistance."

England is silent for a long moment. France draws another cigarette, but doesn't bother to light it, jaws clamping under strain, working methodically. The cheap paper leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.

"I'm listening, frog."

"The Axis-they have swept across my lands in a matter of weeks. My armies are unprepared for this style of war- they are calling it 'blitzkrieg:'" France's graceful cadence stumbles over the harsh word, "lightning war. And like des éclaires, they strike and conquer before I can react."

"All this I knew," England responds evenly.

"This, then, you may not: That we have predicted where the next lightning storm may hit."

England's answering hiss of breath confirms France's suspicions.

"They want Paris..." England mutters. "And they are coming to collect their prize. When?"

"A week? Less? I don't have much time, Angleterre. They are coming straight for _mon couer_, and I am defenseless."

"How many people are still in the city?"

"Some have fled. Some will be evacuated. Some refuse to leave. Who can say? All is chaos, now."

France can hear the crunch of gravel under England's boots as he takes up a steady, even pacing. Oddly enough, it is comforting that England can remain calm and methodical, even as France falls apart.

England stops abruptly. "That's not all, is it? They're coming North, towards me as well."

"Perhaps. Likely."

"France..." England's voice softens, a note of regret seeping into his icy tone, "I...we cannot stop this, you know. I can't protect Paris."

France sighs bitterly. "And neither can we. And so France falls."

"I..I am sorry."

"Will you remember your sorrow when I surrender to the Germans? Or will only the sight of Nazi flags flying from London's highest towers provoke you to action?"

France hears England's breath leave him in an angry gust.

"That was uncalled for," England says in a steely tone. France can feel his glare boring through the wall separating them. "I must, I _must_ be ready in my own home. You are strong, France. I have no doubt you will survive in some form or another."

"A miserable existence, chained to the throne of madman."

"You **will** survive, France. We will win this war."

"I am not so sure!" France finally bellows, frustration and fear getting the best of his fragile composure. "I do not share your confidence. I may not be susceptible to human weapons, but never forget that as a nation, I can be torn apart in many, many more heinous ways:my people, scattered to the ends of the globe, running from their captors, my land ravaged by war, my history forever scarred by the lashmarks of a German whip. This is not what I wanted for them, Angleterre. My children should not be oppressed by a tyrant."

England waits in silence for France's terrified rant to subside.

"France," he says, and his voice carries a new, more tender tone. "I have no doubt that you will have to surrender. Paris is no longer prepared for war, as it was when we were young. But no longer is war dependent upon the fortifications of a city, or the area of the land conquered. This war is also taking place in the minds and hearts of our people, deciding the direction of the future of Europe, and quite possibly the world. Stay alive in spirit, and the Axis will not have truly conquered you.

Find what loyal citizens you can, and resist in any way possible. And, France...Francis..."

England steps away from the hole in the wall, and covers it with his palm, pressing his hand closer to France. On the other side, France places his hand over the hole as well, and leans his forehead on the cold stone.

"I promise you that England will not abandon you. I will not leave you to the Axis. It may take time, but we-I-will make sure that you are rescued. Do you hear me, Francis?"

Francis clears his throat, blinking back sudden emotion.

"Je t'entends, Arthur."

* * *

A/N: I'm not even going to pretend this is historically accurate. I still hope you enjoy the story. R&R please.


End file.
